


Silence

by Casia_sage



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bilingual Character(s), Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Cornish, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Food, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I like italics a lot, I think that’s all, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Suicide, I’LL HAVE TO WRITE ALL THE FICS FOR THIS TINY FANDOM MYSELF, Medical Inaccuracies, No Incest, Panic Attacks, Parent Death, Protective Nick, Sickfic, Singing, Y’all nasty, can you tell I love Bea, i’m so tired, medical care back then was shite anyways, this wasn’t supposed to be so angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 10:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casia_sage/pseuds/Casia_sage
Summary: His skin is pale, well, paler than usual, except for the violent, feverish flush on his cheeks. His eyes are sunken, circled with dark, bruised skin. He definitelylookstired. Nick really hopes that’s all it is.(The sky is blue, grass is green, the winter is cold, Nigel is sick. These seem to be the constant factors of life).





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Yooo, so this story mentions both the death of Nick and Nigel’s mom and dad. Their father died at sea, and their mother killed herself. I based this off of this quote from the show, when Nigel is talking about how they should write a story about their lives: “About 2 orphan brothers who’s father was lost at sea and their mother died of a broken heart. You, at age 14, carried me, your sickly little brother on your back, all the way from Cornwall.” 
> 
> Also! Josh Grisetti released a glimpse inside Nigel’s notebook, which shows a tree with a stick figure hanging by a noose and an arrow pointing to it that says “mom’s tree”, and a ship, which is broken in half and has a little stick figure next to it, in the middle of the ocean, and has the text “dad :(“ which makes me straight up DEPRESSED. So I’m assuming Nigel saying that she died of “a broken heart” was him saying that she killed her self because she was heartbroken over her husband’s death? (Link to Nigel’s notebook: [HERE](http://fuckyeahsomethingrotten.tumblr.com/post/156988270039/a-peek-inside-nigels-notebook-from-josh#notes).)
> 
> Also there is a Cornish lullaby that I’m almost entirely sure was not written during The Renaissance, yet here we are. It’s a lullaby about a mother telling her child to wish for their father to come home safely from seafaring, so I thought it was pretty fitting. 
> 
> ALL TRANSLATIONS ARE IN THE NOTES AT THE END

When he wakes up, Bea is gone and Nigel is sitting at the table, writing in the exact same position that he had been in when Nick had fallen asleep, and he wonders if he’s even moved from that position all night. He stands up, changes into a clean shirt, makes his way into their kitchen area, pours a mug of water from last night’s pitcher, and sets it down in front of his brother before he even notices Nick’s presence. 

This action, however, seems to snap him out of his bleary, sleepy daze. He looks at the mug in front of him and then up at Nick. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks, sounding more concerned than disappointed. 

Nigel blinks rapidly. “Oh, erm, no. I was writing. I just have a lot o-of ideas.”

“Alright, alright,” Nick says with a small smile. “You should try to sleep tonight, okay, Nige?”

Nigel gives a nod and rubs at his eyes. 

“You drink that,” he says, vaguely gesturing to the mug in front of the younger man. “I’ll make some breakfast.”

Nick digs through the cabinets, but only manages to find an old loaf of bread and a couple of eggs, which may or may not be spoilt—it’ll have to do. He cooks up the eggs and, after almost chopping his ring finger off, opts for tearing a couple chunks of the stale bread off. He shoves it in two bowls, dumps some of the eggs on the floor and kicks them under the counter (even after years of making food for him and Nigel, he never really got the knack of it). He makes his way back over to the table, where he sits and scoots one of the bowls across the table to Nigel. 

“Eat,” he demands, an snatches the pen from his little brother’s hand, who begins to whine at him. “I’ll give it back after you eat breakfast,” he bargains, waving the pen in front of his face and then tucking it away in his breast pocket. 

Nigel groans but obliges, picking at bits of the dark bread. He at least drank some of his water, Nick notices. 

Nigel, who’s either quiet or talking at 1,000 miles an hour, is completely silent, in a way, however, that sets alarms off in Nick’s head; it’s an uncharacteristic silence that, when combined with his poutiness and the fact that Nigel, who, with his insanely fast metabolism, is never one to turn his nose up at any food, has eaten about 3 crumbs of bread in the last 5 minutes, is slightly concerning, to say the least. 

“You okay, little brother?” he asks, snapping Nigel back into reality once again. 

Nigel nods. “Tired.”

“Shocking,” he teases. “You didn’t eat your breakfast.”

“I’m not that hungry,” says Nigel, who brings his arm up behind his back, his long, slender fingers around the back of his neck, massaging the tender flesh, which Nick can now see is an irritated red color. In fact, his skin is pale, well, paler than usual, except for the violent, feverish flush on his cheeks. His eyes are sunken, circled with dark, bruised skin. He definitely _looks_ tired. Nick really hopes that’s all it is. 

“Alright,” Nick says, heart racing despite his better judgment. He can’t help but worry. He likes Nigel when he’s healthy; never sitting still because he’s got too much energy, talking his ear off about whatever he’d been reading or whatever new idea he’d come up with. He doesn’t like it when Nigel is quiet or lethargic; he remembers when their mother had died and Nigel didn’t speak for a week, no matter how much he goaded him on and tried to get him to say something, anything. And then Nigel had gotten sick and Nick had to carry his barely conscious, delirious little brother all the way from Cornwall. Nigel had always been sickly, especially as a kid—always laid up in bed, feverish and miserable, had a cough that lingered for months after he’d gotten better. Always smaller than the other kids his age, could end up bedridden from a little cold that would be nothing but an inconvenience to anyone else. Physically, he had never been strong, yet he was always so clever, smarter than Nick could ever hope to be. But his sickliness has followed him into adulthood, and Nick doesn’t think he can handle Nigel getting sick like that right now. And Nigel, who keeps staying up all night to write, isn’t exactly helping Nick make sure that he stays in good health. But he supposes that the best thing he can do is try to keep the younger boy rested, hydrated, and fed best he can. 

“Why don't you try to get some sleep, m’kay? I doubt you'll be able to write anything decent, as tired as you are, anyway.”

Nigel doesn't even argue, he just nods dopily for what seems like the 100th time and stands up, making his way to the pile of blankets on the floor, which works as his bed. He lays down, burying his face in his pillow. 

Nick follows him over, fussing and pulling a blanket over his brother’s unmoving form. “You’re gonna catch cold.”

“I’m not a child, Nick,” he grumbles. 

Nick rolls his eyes. “I’ll stop treating you like one when you stop looking like one.” Nick can’t exactly grow much facial hair himself, but at least he doesn’t he doesn’t look as babyish as his little brother. 

Nigel doesn’t respond, and after a while, his chest starts rising and falling heavily with even breaths. It’s not until then that Nick leaves his side. He walks back over to the table and covers Nigel’s uneaten food with a towel, and then he’s nearly hit by the door as Bea swings it open. He stumbles back, but catches himself on the table, muttering, “Jesus.”

Bea comes hurtling into the room, red hair bouncing around her shoulders, her face bright, a wide grin spread across it. “Nicky,” she practically yells, and holds the bag that she’s holding in front of her open, revealing three brown lumps. “I got potatoes!”

Nick hushes her, gesturing vaguely at Nigel’s sleeping form, and then kisses her. She nearly drops her potatoes, and then kisses him back. She pulls away slowly and smiles, not as much of that broad, excited grin, as a gentler, more ginger smile. 

She sets her bag on the table. “He’s asleep, huh? He was still awake when I left this morning.”

“Yeah,” Nick sighs. “He was awake when I got up, too. I tried to get him to eat something, but I thought he was gonna fall asleep at the table, so I got him to try and get some sleep.”

Bea smiles at him and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, muttering, “Good,” and then looking down at her hands.

“I’m worried that he’s getting sick.”

She looks back up at him. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Nick doesn’t know what else to say, so he just nods, because apparently he’s becoming his brother now. 

He takes Bea’s hand and sits down next to her, where she’s seated at the table. He lets his head rest against her shoulder. He hums comfortably and nuzzles into her neck, which makes her giggle a little.

He decides to spend the rest of the day writing, or attempting to. By dinner time, when Nigel still hasn’t woken up, or shown any sign of doing so anytime soon, they decide to let him sleep and they’ll get him up for breakfast tomorrow. So one of Bea’s precious potatoes sits on the counter, forgotten and uncooked. 

For the first time in months, maybe a year, Nick dreams of his mother. He dreams of her mass of deep black curls, her kind, brown eyes. He dreams of Nigel asleep on her lap, all dark curls and kind eyes, a mirror image of their mother. But Nick, with his striking blue eyes, his shorter, sturdier build, and his looser curls, looks more like his father. He dreams of his father, too, but the memories are more vague—salt spray, jars full of green glass shards, grains of sand sifting through his fingers, his mother's tears. To him, his father isn’t a person, he doesn’t have a human figure; he is the ocean. He is the two, big, cold, roughly calloused hands cupping his cheeks, handing him seashells and pebbles, like the waves do, turning book pages, waving goodbye as he leaves him and his mother and little baby Nigel on a beach. His father is a far off dream, a story that’s been told to him so many times that he starts to believe that it’s nothing more than a tale–that those hands that cupped his cheeks, ruffled his hair, the glass jar full of the ocean’s many treasures, were all just a detail he had once heard in a story. And then his father, to him, is his mother’s broken sobs, the tree behind their house, his mother’s once kind eyes now hazy and cruel and lifeless, her skin a ghoulish grey, her lips, once soft and pink, pressed softly against the top of Nigel’s head, now blue and cold. His mother. His mother who had been left hanging because her 14 year old son couldn’t bear to look at her body long enough, who carried off her youngest son, who had looked at it for too long.

Nick wakes up. Bea’s arms are wrapped around his midsection. There are tears rolling down his cheeks. He decides not to try and go back to sleep. 

Nick decides to write, since no one else is going to be up for a while. Instead, he sits at the table with a small, yet surprisingly bright lamp, a pen, and paper, trying desperately to think of an idea. He glances down and realizes that the pen is Nigel’s. He starts at it for a moment, mind blank. God, why can’t he think of anything to write?

“ ‘s bright,” he hears from across the room. Nigel. He’s mumbling, but he can make out, “Nick...turn it off…’s too bright.”

“The lamp?” Nick asks. He only gets a groan in response. He blows it out and goes to Nigel’s bed, kneeling at his side. “You okay?”

The light had finally made it click for Nick. Nigel sometimes had these...attacks. His head would hurt, he’d vomit violently, and as Nick remembers, he’s extremely sensitive to light. Nigel, however, doesn’t respond, and Nick wonders if he fell asleep again. He puts his hand on the supposedly sleeping boy’s shoulder, gently turning him over with a barely audible, “Hey.” Nigel is not asleep, yet he isn’t exactly conscious, either. If he thought he had been pale yesterday, he wasn’t even close to as pale as he is now; his skin is as white as snow, as white as the fresh parchment he had been writing on—and his paleness only accentuates his dark eyebags. His cheeks kept the same threateningly red flush, his tight, ebony curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes barely open, fluttering shut and then opening just slightly once again. Nick, at this point, is about to start panicking. He can feel the heat radiating off of Nigel’s skin from where Nick’s own hand is still resting on his shoulder. Nick can tell that despite the heat of his skin and the sweat gathering on his brow, his body is wracked violently with shivers.

“Nigel,” he whispers. Nigel remains silent, not showing any evidence that he even recognizes that Nick was talking to him. “ _Broder_ ,” he says, louder than he intended, and he hadn’t even intended for it to come out in Cornish. Their mother had taught them Cornish when they were kids, but they usually only spoke it to annoy Bea, or, occasionally, when they wanted to talk privately. Nigel sometimes started to speak it when he was tired. 

He must have said it even louder than he’d thought, because he woke up Bea, who was never a very heavy sleeper anyways. She’s up and by Nick’s side in an instant, muttering, “What’s wrong?” in her groggy morning voice, which is ridiculously comforting at the moment.

He pulls himself together long enough to say, “Go get a doctor. Now.” Bea, who is dressed only in her white chemise, is already putting her coat on. “Hurry,” he rasps, and she nods hurriedly and closes the door behind her. 

Nick doesn’t have any idea how long Bea’s gone. He’s too focused on Nigel’s face, all pale and drawn and scrunched up in pain. He doesn’t even let his mind wander far enough to worry about how they’re going to find the money to pay the doctor. 

He’s nearly got himself calmed down again when he sees it. Where Nigel’s shirt has slid a little way off of his thin shoulders, he can see a patch of small red dots on the skin between his neck and shoulder. He feels his throat close up. What if it’s the plague? What is he going to do? He can’t lose Nigel. He can’t.

“ _Mar pleg_ ,” he says softly and somewhat desperately to no one in particular. 

“Nick…” he hears faintly. Nigel’s still not completely conscious, but his eyes are seeming to remain partially open now, instead of closing every other second, undeniably looking directly at Nick, and he knows who he is, so at least that big brain of his isn’t completely fried. “ _Drog yw genev…”_

“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry for anything,” he says. Nick smiles and wipes those damned tears from his eyes, which haven’t really stopped flowing all morning, which is beyond embarrassing, but that dream had stirred something weird and emotional and sentimental in him. 

The door opens again and Bea, followed by the doctor, a kindly, soft-spoken old man, clutching a leather bag to his chest. 

“Mr. Bottom, sir,” he greets, holding out his hand. 

“Doctor,” Nick says, standing and shaking his hand with his own clammy, trembling hand. “He wasn’t feeling very well yesterday, but it wasn’t this bad.”

He can feel Bea’s comforting arm around his shoulder. 

The doctor nods. “I’ll take a look. You try to relax.”

“Of course,” she says, ushering her husband over to the table, where she has him sit and begins pouring him a drink. “It’ll be okay, Nicky.”

“I know,” he mutters. “I’m just worried.”

“Me too,” Bea admits. “It happened so fast.” She sets the mug down next to him. “But Nigel’s tough. He’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” he says unenthusiastically. He fidgets with Nigel’s pen, which was previously left lying, forgotten on the table. 

He takes a sip of the warmed beverage. Tea. She still has the pen in his other hand. Bea has obviously noticed that the pen belongs to Nigel by now. She’s also realized that Nick is having a bizarre, emotional reaction to all of this, but he can’t exactly tell her that he had a dream about his dead mother and he hasn’t been able to breathe since. Frankly, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, so it’s no use worrying her. But, honestly, him losing his ability to breathe and process basic human emotions should be the least of his worries at the moment. His baby brother is feet away, possibly deathly ill, and Nick can’t even look over there without panicking again. But he drinks his cup of tea and he can feel himself relaxing at least a little bit. After a few minutes of calm, steadied breathes, he almost feels normal again. Right in time for the doctor to walk over to them, a grim look on his face. 

“I’ll help him the best I can, but I’d recommend stepping outside for a moment. This part won't be too pleasant.”

Nick’s eyebrows furrow. “No,” he says, exasperated. “I’m staying.”

“Nick, baby,” Bea says. “I think we should listen to the doctor, okay?”

Nick notices the shining stiletto in the old man’s calloused hands. “Right,” he says, and it comes out as barely even a whisper. He allows himself to be guided out of the house.

It’s mid-September, not the sweltering heat of the summer or the unbearable cold of the days that December brings, but usually both. It’s still early though, and they’re still dressed in merely their sleepwear; the frigid, early morning air chills him. There’s something about this almost-winter that’s always put him on edge; the seasons battling, seemingly battling stuck in limbo. But winter, winter is familiar. There’s a certain slowness, a stillness that winter brings about—Summer is rushed, busy, but winter is slow and peaceful and thorough. Winter is needles falling slowly from evergreens and big, blue birds spending all day picking red berries in a storm of white. Really, winter shouldn’t be at all comforting to him. From his experience, winter meant pain and cold and hunger; but it’s so familiar. Even Nigel getting sick is familiar. Nick has always preferred familiarity to comfort, or perhaps he mistakes the two. But there’s nothing familiar about this. There’s nothing familiar about having to teach himself how to breathe again or standing outside in his nightwear, listening to the unmistakable sound of Nigel’s voice letting out a half-scream, half-groan. There’s nothing familiar about Nigel, now fully grown, still rail-thin, but startlingly tall, much taller than Nick himself, in their house with a strange man cutting him open and bleeding him out. There is nothing familiar about Nigel being in pain and _Nick_ not being by his side. But the screaming and groaning stops, and the doctor opens the door, ushering them back in. 

When they walk in, Nick is met with the familiar, sour stench of vomit. Nigel is laying on the floor where they had left him, his eyes rolled back in his skull, his lips parted slightly, his arm wrapped in cloth, limp at his side, next to a basin, partially filled with deep red blood. 

“He should be okay for now. I’ll come back this evening to check in again. Come and get me if anything changes before then.” He hands Bea a small jar full different little herbs. “Mix this in with warm water or warm, weak wine. Try to get him to drink it.”

With a soft, “Thank you,” from Bea, the doctor is gone. 

Nick takes his wife’s hand in his own and smiles at her. _She’s kind of beautiful_ , he realizes. Not in a way that has anything to do with her smooth skin or strong arms or red hair, but it’s something about her lazy smiles, how she seems to have been born knowing how to love; she was born with the ability to love in a way that ignites her bones. 

“I love you,” he says, because he can’t think of any other way to explain what she is—branches of white light, bloody mouths, all silk and gossamer, how she seems to exist simply for the sake of existing. And every word he uses to describe her makes sense in his heart, but loses all meaning in his head, so he settles for, “I love you.”

She says, “I love you, too,” and he wonders if, like him, that’s not what she really wants to say. 

He once again settles at his brother’s side. “ _My a’th kar_ ,” he says to the boy, leaving a kiss on his burning head, because he can’t even begin to explain what he means to him. Nigel is a perfect, unwavering constant in his life. And Nick exists to this day to kneel beside him. That is all. 

He can practically _feel_ Bea’s stare burning holes into the back of his head; the Cornish, which is rarely spoken, let alone in such an innocent tone, has caught her attention. She continues to warm up the water, but remains attentive. 

They eventually get the strange smelling tea made and manage to get Nigel to drink some. Some few hours pass, hours filled with retrieving fresh water, damp rags, worry, and gentle words. Nigel hasn’t been lucid all day. It’s getting dark out now and the doctor shows up later than Nick would have liked. He checks on Nigel for a few minutes, declares that his fever hasn’t gone down, and he’ll be lucky if he makes it through the night. He give few instructions and then promptly leaves, leaving Nick feeling uncomfortably numb. Bea doesn’t say anything when Nick takes his place by Nigel’s side and doesn’t move. The house is silent. Bea eventually dozes off, half-sitting on her and Nick’s bed—Nick only realizes this after he wakes up on the floor by Nigel. He must have been asleep for a few hours.

He looks over at Nigel. His skin is no longer snow-white with a feverish flush, it’s a dull gray. His eyes are still rolled back in his skull, showing no sign of movement, and his hand, which Nick’s is still wrapped tightly around, is cold. Nick stops breathing. He tries to gasping for breath, but only ends up nearly gagging. Nigel, who looks so much like their mother—pale skin, tight, black curls, warm brown eyes, kindly faces—still looks like her, even now (gray, sweaty skin, lifeless eyes, cold body). He looks dead, but, no, his chest is rising and falling with each raspy breath, and every so often a small, pained groan escapes his lips, yet Nick continues to stare at him like a corpse. Nick finally, unable to control it any longer, lets out a quiet, strangled sob. He’s sitting on the ground, practically folded in half, and allows himself to bury his face in Nigel’s shirt, gently resting his head on the younger poet’s chest. He’s sobs for a few minutes, leaving tear tracks on his sibling’s shirt. Nick doesn’t cry a lot, hardly ever, unlike his brother, but he can’t hold it in anymore.

He sniffles and gasps out, “Please, I need you, Nige.” He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never even considered what he might do it Nigel died. It seems impossible to him. Everyone can leave, his mother, his father, Will, the entire damn acting troupe, but not Nigel. No, Nigel was always there. You couldn’t have one and not the other. They’ve been together through everything. “You pain in the ass,” he sobs. “C’mon, little brother. You’re all I’ve got.”

When they were little, they had shared one small, cramped bed. They had started sleeping there as soon as Nigel was old enough to stop sleeping in his bassinet. Nick would sleep on his side, and Nigel, with his head against his big brother’s chest, would try to wrap his tiny arms around Nick’s torso. And Nick would support Nigel’s little body by putting his hand on his back. Nigel, as a baby, would stick his tiny pink tongue out, leaving little wet prints on the chest of Nick’s shirt. Honestly, he couldn’t decided whether it was cute or disgusting. But all the years that they had spent living in that house, it was the same. 

Nick holds Nigel’s sweltering, feverish form close to his chest. Nigel instinctively moves a little closer, leaning into the embrace, obviously appreciating the warmth. This position is safe, it’s familiar. _Breathe_. Safe, familiar, _breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe_. And finally he does. 

He looks up on the shelf, above where Bea is still fast asleep. He stares at the glass jar full of shards of smooth, green glass, sea shells, little pebbles. He breathes deeply. 

He remembers a song that his mother used to sing, a song that he continued to sing to Nigel every night of their childhood, after their mother had died. 

_“Cusk, fleghyk cusk_ ,” he sings in a soft, trembling voice. “ _Ny wra Tasek dos;_  
Tewlys yn mysk,  
Hungan nos,  
Lorgan a dherlenter,  
War ewon fyn;  
Golow porth gwer,  
Doro Tasek dhyn.”

Nigel stirs. It’s a coincidence, he knows that, but he smiles anyway. 

_“Cusk fleghyk cusk,_  
Dhe ves Tasek eth;  
Tewlys yn mysk,  
Bys an jeth;  
Pyskessa yn hans,  
Ow nyja hep fyn,  
Collanow dha whans,  
Doro tasek dhyn.  
“Cusk, fleghyk cusk,  
'ma tasek a bell,  
Tewlys y'n mysk,  
Steren, y whel;  
An ardar gwra sewya,  
Wortu an lyn,  
Dha vynnas gwra,  
Doro Tasek dhyn.” 

Nick runs his free hand through his dark hair and drifts slowly back into a peaceful sleep. 

The next thing Nigel knows, there’s a blinding light shining in his eyes and a warm weight around him. He forces his eyes open (which his throbbing head doesn’t appreciate), but realizes that the bright light is just the sunlight spilling through the window. The warm weight is an arm lying on top of his stomach. The arm, strangely enough, belongs to Nick. There’s something cold and damp on his head; he reaches up and touches it, revealing it to be a wet cloth. This movement is enough to startle Bea, who Nigel, in his delirious state, didn’t even realize is sitting at the table. She stands up and appears at the bothers’ side. Nigel’s certain that he didn’t see her walk over to them. She shakes Nick awake. Why would she do that? Nick doesn’t like being woken up before he wants to get up. He’s going to be cranky all day now. But Nick doesn’t look upset or annoyed. 

He can hear vague talking, but there’s a ringing in his ears. 

“Nick, he’s awake,” the muffled voice says. She sounds… _happy? Excited?_

Th warm arm is gone, and he sees Nick sit up. Everything seems blurry and laggy.

“Oh,” Nick says, wide eyed. Nigel feels a large, cool hand on his cheek. “Hey, Nige. C’mon, kid, talk to me.”

Nigel tries, but he can’t seem to. He’s too tired and words don’t seem to make any sense. It all hurts his head. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, and he can’t seem to say anything but one word. “Nick…” His voice is weak and crackling, but the word came out clear enough. 

Nick smiles at him, but it’s a sad smile. “Hey, you’re gonna be okay,” he begins, and then Bea reappears at his side, and his brother takes a steaming mug from her. And, Jesus, he didn’t see her get up either. “Drink this.”

He obliges when the brim of the mug is pressed to his lips. It feels good on his raw throat, but he vaguely realizes that it tastes kind of awful, but, really, nothing could be worse than the sour taste in his mouth right now. 

He wants to stay awake for Nick, but he’s so _tired_. Before he knows it, his eyes are shut.

The next time that Nigel wakes up, some of the color is back in his face, just a little bit, but enough for Nick to notice. His fever seems to have gone down some, too, by some miracle. It’s almost dusk and Bea’s making dinner. When Nigel wakes up, Nick helps him sit up without a word and has him drink a glass of water (not that foul, warm liquid this time). He seems to be feeling better now, since he can say more than just Nick’s name, and manages, “What’s going on?” Which is a valid question. He’s probably confused as hell. 

“You’re sick, Nige. You were really sick,” he explains. “The doctor said, uh,” Nick starts, but then trails off. Nigel cocks his head. “The doctor didn’t think you were going to make it through the night…”

“Oh.”

Nick nods. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

The older boy looks at him, shocked. “You’re asking _me_ if _I’m_ alright? Seriously?”

“You seem upset,” Nigel says timidly, looking exhausted yet attentive.

Nick considers telling his brother about his dream and his random spouts of paranoia and breathlessness, but what’s the point in worrying him? Everything’s fine now; what happened before doesn’t matter anymore. 

He smiles. “No, I’m fine,” he says, and he thinks that part of him means it. 

Bea comes over to them with broth, which the doctor recommended when she had talked to him earlier. After they finished dinner, and Nigel manages half a bowl, they all go straight to bed (they could use the extra rest. All of them). 

Nick, being as protective as he is, checks on Nigel one more time before he goes to bed, muttering something about how Nigel never listens to him and how he’s such a pain in the ass. 

“You’re sure that you don’t need anything before I go to bed?” he asks for the 100th time that night. 

Nigel can’t exactly be annoyed, though. “Yes, I’m sure.” Nick gives him an uncertain look. “I’m fine, Nick,” Nigel assures him. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, turning his back to his brother. 

Nigel takes a deep breath and then releases it slowly. “Oh, um, N-Nick?”

“Yeah?” he says, turning back around to face him. 

Nigel fidgets with his hands, but finally meets his eyes. “I, uh, love you, too.”

Nick’s mind races, wondering how he could possibly remembers anything about that night, as delirious and feverish as he was. But Nick just says, “Yeah. Go to sleep,” but there’s a kindly smile on his face when he says it, so it makes Nigel smile, too. 

For the next week, they eat dinner sitting next to Nigel on the floor so he can rest. They continue to have broth, but Bea comes out of their Kitchen area with a slightly hardier soup with one single, tinily diced potato in it, and the House is filled with warm, familiar laughter and chatter and _sound_.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Broder - Brother  
> Mar pleg - Please  
> Drog yw genev - Sorry  
> My a’th kar - I love you
> 
>  
> 
> The lullaby: 
> 
> Sleep baby sleep,  
> Dad is not nigh,  
> Tossed in the deep,  
> Lullaby;  
> Moon shining bright,  
> On dancing foam,  
> Green harbour light,  
> Bring daddy home.
> 
> Sleep baby sleep,  
> Dad is away,  
> Tossed on the deep,  
> Looking for day;  
> Catching the fish,  
> That ever roam,  
> Fulfill your wish,  
> Bring daddy home.
> 
> Sleep baby sleep,  
> Dad is afar,  
> Tossed on the deep,  
> Watching a star;  
> Follow the plough,  
> To anchor stone,  
> Make a wish now,  
> Bring daddy home.
> 
> Idk thanks for reading this disaster


End file.
